by Anne Barton
Rose carefully checked the backs for initials, a date, anything, but the sketches contained no clues as to the identity of the artist.
At least she could ask Charles about the drawings when she saw him tomorrow.
But should she? She had no right to pry into his personal affairs. He could pose for sketches if he chose to, and he certainly didn’t owe her an explanation.
Still, she hoped for one.
How well did she really know Charles, after all? Yes, she’d listened to his stories and memorized every nuance of his voice. She’d watched him in the stables, appreciating the sure, confident movements of a man who embraced hard work. He was as far as one could get from the effeminate gentlemen who worried that their hair was tousled just so and spent an hour to ensure their cravats were tied in a fashionable knot. The perfect male specimen, Charles scoffed at fashion like a fish scoffs at swimming lessons.
But there was more to him, as Rose well knew. He could swing a hammer like a blacksmith one minute and cradle a newborn kitten in his palm the next. And he’d never judged her. Not when she was mute, and not when she spoke. Kind and true, he’d been a rock when the world she’d known was falling apart.
But time had passed. People changed. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought.
She’d assumed that he wasn’t involved with anyone, but something about the sketches she’d found made her question that. What if she’d kissed a man whose attentions were already otherwise engaged?
She should have been humiliated by her own brazen behavior by the pond, and she was—a little. But what she mostly felt was a venomous combination of hurt and anger. A new and foreign emotion, she nonetheless recognized it for what it was. Jealousy.
A powerful thing, for it had even made her momentarily forget that she was supposed to be searching for information about Mama. Inhaling deeply, Rose composed herself as best she could. She tucked the sketches back into the wooden box on the bookshelf and gently shut the lid. That was enough exploring for today.
Charles owed her nothing. But she would ask him for the truth.
Tomorrow.
“I’ve decided to host a ball.” Lady Yardley sat on the edge of her seat in the drawing room, excitement oozing out of her. “It’s been an age since I’ve entertained in grand style, and your visit provides the perfect excuse for a celebration. What do you think?”
Lady Bonneville shrugged. “I am generally in favor of parties thrown in my honor—as long as they are not dreadfully boring.”
“No, boring would never do. It must be the event of the season!” Lady Yardley turned and clasped Rose’s hands. “Won’t it be wonderful? You shall have the opportunity to dance with Lord Stanton, and other young gentlemen as well.”
Rose dragged her gaze away from the clock on the mantel. She’d planned to meet with Charles in a half hour. Smiling at Lady Yardley, she nodded and tried valiantly to summon a bit of enthusiasm for the ball. “I look forward to it and will be happy to help with the preparations.”
Lady Bonneville piped up, “Preparations can be as diverting as the ball itself—if done properly. One must employ an abundance of strategy if one wishes to host a memorable affair, and that is the goal, is it not?”
“Indeed!” Lady Yardley agreed. “The true measure of a ball’s success is how unforgettable the evening is. I shall defer to your expertise on all matters.”
The viscountess rolled her eyes but did seem to perk up at the idea of orchestrating the social event of the season. “There’s much to be done and not a moment to spare. Rose, fetch some paper and prepare to take notes.”
Now? Charles was probably already making his way to the folly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to rest a bit before dinner?”
The viscountess lifted her lorgnette. Slowly. “I find myself suddenly energized. Have you something else to do? Somewhere else to go?”
Rose hesitated, but she couldn’t very well tell the truth. “No.”
“Excellent,” pronounced Lady Yardley. “I’m going to ring for more tea. Shall we begin by discussing the decorations? Or perhaps the menu?”
“On the contrary.” The viscountess’s eyes gleamed as she tapped her lorgnette lightly against her palm. “We start with the guest list—the cast of characters. For we must know our actors and actresses before we can envision the scenery.”
Lady Yardley placed her hand on her chest, clearly awed by this bit of wisdom.
“There’s a daunting amount of work to be done.” Lady Bonneville spoke with the command of a general rallying the troops. “We may have to forego our predinner naps for the next several days.”
As the older women began making lists of Important Personages, Esteemed Ladies, and Eligible Gentlemen, Rose’s heart sank. She imagined Charles standing just outside the rotunda, his body silhouetted against the dusky purple sky, waiting for her in the cold.
With a sigh, she picked up her quill and, like the good soldier she was, dutifully awaited her marching orders. But even as she wrote, her mind was busy devising a way to speak with Charles. She had to tell him that she was sorry for not showing at the appointed time. She had to ask him for his help with discovering Mama’s whereabouts. And she had to find out what he knew about the sketches—the very thought of which made her heart beat faster.
Chapter Seven
Habit: (1) Ladies’ riding attire, including: a fitted jacket, skirt, gloves, boots, and hat. (2) An almost involuntary, oft-repeated behavior, as in Their secret rendezvous were becoming something of a habit.
Sleet pelted Charles’s face as he strode up the stone path to his cottage. In the thought-numbing cold, the freshly painted blue door looked more inviting than usual. He liked living alone, and Lady Yardley had seemed more than happy to have him occupy the abandoned structure, which had been nothing but an eyesore before he’d moved in.
Within a week of arriving at Yardley Manor, he’d rethatched the cottage’s roof, cleaned the chimney, and hung new shutters on the windows. Some old furniture had been stored inside, so Charles repaired anything worth saving and used the rest for kindling.
It was tidy and comfortable and a space of his own. But it wasn’t home because it wasn’t really his. And neither was the land. He was content living here now, while he learned all he could about running an estate, but he had much bigger plans. Bigger dreams.
In America, he’d be free to pursue the life he wanted. Land of his own, and someday, a grand house to rival Huntford Manor—a house worthy of a woman like Rose.
There was little to keep him in England. He’s miss his father, of course, but Charles would send him money and buy his passage to America as soon as he could. He suspected, though, that his father would choose stay in his cottage, close to the cemetery where his mother had been laid to rest after she’d died so suddenly—and needlessly.
Mama’s tormented screams still haunted him. Even as a lad of eight, he’d known the birth of his baby brother or sister wasn’t going well. Papa—his strong, stoic father—knelt at Mama’s bedside, crying. Frantic, the midwife grabbed Charles by the collar. “Doctor Bentham is at the manor house. Bring him here,” she’d said, shoving him out the door of their cottage. “Run!”
He’d flown across the vast lawn, his boots churning up grass. Breathless, he’d pounded on the servants’ entrance and gasped out his request. “Mama needs Doctor Bentham… right away… it’s an emergency.”
The frazzled kitchen maid had whispered to the cook and the cook wiped her hands on her apron as she bustled toward the housekeeper’s small office. But they all moved much too slowly for him. Didn’t they understand that Mama was in excruciating pain? And that every second they dallied prolonged her misery?
He paced as he waited, his stomach clenching with dread. When the housekeeper returned, the doctor wasn’t with her. “He’ll be along shortly. He’s attending the duchess right now. She’s suffering from the devil of a cold.”
“But they said to hurry.” Shaking with frustr
ation, Charles burst into tears. “They said to hurry.”
The cook clucked her tongue in pity and handed him a small pastry. He hurled it across the kitchen and ran home, hoping to be of some use there. But he wasn’t. He was only in the way as the midwife worked and Mama clung to life as long as she could.
Bentham had been too late. While he’d been treating the duchess—Rose’s mother—for the goddamn sniffles, Mama had bled to death. The infant—a wee girl who would have been his sister—was gone, too.
Charles shook off the memory and shrugged off the pain. Grief and bitterness wouldn’t get him anywhere. Only ambition and hard work would. Mama would have wanted him to make something of himself, and, by God, he wouldn’t let her down. Not again.
When Rose hadn’t met him at the folly, he’d taken a brisk walk to the nearest pub, where he ate dinner and drank three large glasses of ale.
Rose had been wise not to meet him. He would only demand more than she could give. Perhaps she already regretted their kiss.
The kiss he hadn’t been able to forget.
He’d waited at the folly by the lake for a full hour. The cold didn’t bother him, and if Rose came late, he didn’t want her to think he’d given up on her. But after darkness fell, he knew she wasn’t coming.
And now, as he kicked the snow off his boots on his front stoop, all he wanted was to light a fire, crawl into bed, and give himself up to dreams of a redheaded beauty with eyes that saw into his soul.
He cracked the door, startled to see a lamp burning on the small plank table beneath the window. Suddenly wary, he reached for the dagger he kept in his boot, swung the door farther, then stopped.
“Charles.” Rose was perched on a bench, petting his cat, Ash.
Dear God. He swiftly tucked the dagger away. “Rose.”
Annoyed at the interruption, Ash stretched on the bench and yawned.
Charles’s heart raced as he closed the door against the biting chill. “Is everything all right? What are you doing here?”
She blew out a breath slowly, as though calming herself. “I wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I tried to go to the folly, but the viscountess—”
“You don’t need to explain,” he said gently. “And I hope that’s not the reason you risked coming here in the dark and the cold. I don’t blame you for reconsidering.”
“That’s just it—I didn’t. I would have met you if I could have. I just wanted you to know.”
“How did you find my cottage?”
“You’d mentioned it was by the pond. I took a chance.”
“I’ll say.” He glanced around the room, seeing the stark quarters as they must look through her eyes. Plain, primitive. He hung his greatcoat on a hook by the door. “How long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes. I told Lady Bonneville’s maid that I wanted to take a walk before I retired for the evening.”
“She didn’t find that odd?”
Rose gave a wan smile. “I’m sure she did; however, she was too kind to say so. She’s accustomed to my slightly unconventional behavior. It’s a benefit of being eccentric, I suppose. No one really questions my peculiar tendencies.”
She lifted the cat and nuzzled him against her cheek, making Charles oddly jealous. “Isn’t that right, Ash?” she cooed. “We both know how it feels to be a bit of an outcast.”
“You are not an outsider.” She shouldn’t even joke about such things.
“So, you brought this little one with you.” She scratched the spot just between Ash’s ears, and he purred appreciatively.
“He’s family.” And a shared memory with Rose. That stormy morning in the woods at Huntford Manor had brought them closer… and driven them apart. The cat was a connection to her he treasured.
He knelt before the hearth to start a fire, then asked, “Would you like a blanket?” He wished he could offer her something more—but it wasn’t as though he had a china serving set and freshly baked scones on hand.
“No, thank you.” She clasped her hands contentedly. “Everything about this place is cozy and quaint, like a woodcutter’s cottage out of a fairy tale. I confess I’m a bit envious. I’d love to have a refuge such as this.”
He looked up from the grate to see if she was teasing, but she was gazing around the room like she’d discovered a secret pirate’s cove.
Once the flames in the fireplace were flickering several inches high, he joined her on the bench. “You cannot stay long.”
“Heavens, Charles,” she teased. “That’s no way to greet a guest.” Ash settled himself in her lap, giving him yet another reason to be jealous.
“Yes, well, I don’t do much entertaining. In fact, you’re my first guest ever.”
“Ever?” Her wide smile warmed him to the core.
“Yes. But that doesn’t change the fact that you should not be here. A bachelor’s residence is no place for a lady.”
“I wish you wouldn’t think of me that way.”
“As a lady?” He arched a brow at her. “I wouldn’t think of you any other way.”
“I just meant… are you not glad that I came? Even the tiniest bit?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners and twinkled in the firelight.
“I am glad,” he admitted. More than he had a right to be. “Now that you are here, what would you like to do?” He hadn’t intended for the question to be wicked or suggestive, but it hung in the air between them, giving off more sparks than the crackling wood in the fireplace.
Blushing furiously, she took a deep breath and said, “You were going to tell me why you left and how you ended up here, at Yardley Manor—don’t you remember?”
He did. And he had to tell her about his plans before things between them went any further.
“As I mentioned, you were part of the reason I left. It seemed prudent to put some distance between us.” Her cheeks flushed pink again, and he continued. “But the truth is that I always planned to leave Huntford Manor.”
“You always aspired to be more than a stable master,” she said. “Even as a girl, I knew you’d succeed—at whatever you wished to do.”
Touched by her confidence, he smiled. “You may have been the only one—besides my father. He taught me all he knew, and after I’d learned all I could about horses, I began spending time with the head gardener and the butler. Anyone who’d let me hang about—even the cook. I asked scores of questions and begged them to let me help. I needed to make something of myself—not only for my own sake, but also for my father’s. We both wanted to honor my mother’s memory.”
“She’d be proud of the man you’ve become,” Rose said softly.
Charles nodded. “Perhaps. But I’m not yet the man I want to be.” Damn. He shouldn’t be having this conversation after three glasses of ale.
“You’re not content being a steward?”
“I don’t want to work for anyone else. It has nothing to do with my employers. I know I was fortunate to work for the duke. Your brother was fair, decent, and honorable. Lady Yardley has been kind to me also.”
“But you are not happy being in service to anyone.”
“Not for my livelihood.” Under different circumstances, and in different ways, he could be very happy being in Rose’s service. But that wasn’t what she was asking. “I want to work for myself. I want land of my own.”
“An admirable goal, but I can’t imagine it will be easy.”
Charles gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. “Nothing worth achieving is easy.”
“That is true.”
“You may remember that I had taken over as head groom when my father was thrown from a horse and badly injured. But after a few years he recovered, at least enough to oversee the stables again. I decided it was time for me to make my own way. I went to London in search of work and ended up on the docks.”
“Ah, that would account for your shoulders.”
“Pardon?”
“When I first saw you again, you seemed so much bigger to me. It must have
been grueling labor.”
Her admission warmed him. “It paid well. I saved every shilling I could. I earned a reputation as a hard worker who could be trusted, and I started getting different kinds of assignments.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Different, as in more dangerous?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Higher paying.”
“But you’re not doing that kind of work anymore. What happened?”
“I met a man—Lord Landridge—in a pub near the shipyards.”
“Landridge,” Rose mused. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Go on.”
“He wanted help locating a former servant who’d absconded with his wife’s jewels. I found one of her necklaces at a pawnshop and was able to track down the thief and the rest of her valuables. Landridge paid me for my efforts but asked if there was anything else he could do for me. I declined his generosity at first, but he pressed me to think of something. So I told him I wanted to learn how to run an estate.”
“And he hired you.” Rose’s eyes shone with something akin to pride, warming him inside.
Charles nodded. “He let me work beneath his steward and learn the ropes.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It was the opportunity I needed. I felt guilty about hiding my lack of reading ability but tried to make up for it by working longer and harder than anyone else.”
Rose squeezed his hand. “I’m certain you did.”
“About a year later, Lady Yardley attended a house party at his estate. She mentioned to Landridge that she needed a steward. Her former one had been stealing from her ever since her husband died. Landridge told her that though I had limited experience, I was trustworthy, and a quick study.
“The idea of me acting as the steward of a grand estate seemed far-fetched at first, but Lady Yardley met with me and offered me the position. I arrived here almost nine months ago.”
“And how do you like it here?”
“I’ve learned much, and Lady Yardley is pleased with the improvements to the estate, but I must confess… I’m more eager than ever to strike out on my own.”
